


he was a sudden storm in winter

by courante



Category: Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 1980s, Bartenders, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, yeah it's that kind of fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27818329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courante/pseuds/courante
Summary: he told you his name was brett, and he was from taipei and grew up in australia, like you. he was doing his masters at handai, and he didn’t drink, at least not anymore. “i don’t handle alcohol that well.”“that’s a funny thing to say for a bartender,” you replied, through the haze of said alcohol. “so you just do this to proposition customers?”
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	he was a sudden storm in winter

**Author's Note:**

> basically a ons salaryman/bartender au. logistics? i don't know what that is; i'm just here to make a mess.

you were in osaka then, squeezing your way through the throngs of salarymen amid the high-rises of semba. a business trip like any other that left you little time for reprieve; it was 1989 and everything was going up, the stocks and the heat and the imminent invisible tidal wave hovering over your head. yes, there was a moment like that, then; back to the neon lights.

you've never been good at holding your liquor, so of course when the meeting dispersed someone clapped on your shoulder and asked ( _ordered_ ) you to come along now, there's a nice place in dotonbori, something something in slurred kansai-ben you're already struggling to understand. you let yourself be dragged half-willing into a cab, because you were too unwilling to say no, even now.

the lights were dim and _he_ was there, impeccably buttoned up in white: behind the bar, and then in front of you. there were ten of you there, squeezing around a too-small table, and you were the only foreigner on yet another misadventure by alcohol. the bartender smiled and asked around the table for orders, and even over the loud music the lilt of his voice brought you back to a moment of clarity.

you thought: _just get through it._

it's one way to close the deal, drinking: one moment someone was muttering about the yomiuri giants and the next moment everyone was laughing over some sports joke you're not sure you quite caught. the air was thick with smoke and you thought your lungs would burst at any moment now, between breaths and polite sips of asahi black. the bartender left the chatter with the group at some point and brought you a glass of water, asking in english with a too familiar accent: "you okay there?"

"no," you answered, in mandarin. nobody was listening to you or the heavy vibrations threatening to tear your eardrums apart. you were already a little drunk by then, perhaps; you stared at his long eyelashes behind dark glasses and did not think once about whether or not he could understand you, because he was pretty in the weird lighting and that was all you could think about. "is there a bathroom? i don't feel so good."

(at least, that's what you think you asked.)

he took you home. you were an awful houseguest, banging your head on the low ceilings, tripping over once neatly-arranged wires. it was a nice place, small but neatly kept, and you saw, even in your stupor, the violin case by the wall, the row of awards hidden in the back of a cabinet—familiar things. it was also the kind of serendipity you didn't think would happen to you, or it could be an unsolved case file waiting to happen. 

he told you his name was brett, and he was from taipei and grew up in australia, like you. he was doing his masters at handai, and he didn’t drink, at least not anymore. “i don’t handle alcohol that well.”

“that’s a funny thing to say for a bartender,” you replied, through the haze of said alcohol. “so you just do this to proposition customers?”

"maybe," he said, "it’s just a side gig after all." your hands touched briefly, and you felt the phantom weight of a bow between his fingers, and something in your heart started to sing.

or maybe not. nothing ended up happening that night, but he pulled out his violin and serenaded you as you fell into slumber, and you do remember thinking: _i’m so fucked._

you stumbled late into the conference room the next morning but they did not pay any attention to you (or maybe that’s what you get for getting lost coming out of a stranger’s flat.) the day passed like molasses and you wondered why brett even bothered with you last night if he hadn’t wanted to fuck you, or if he really had the kind of restraint that in your mind is saved for saints.

(“thanks, man,” you’d told him before you left, throbbing headache and all. and then you felt a sudden moment of courage that was never to be replicated: “can i see you again?”)

the group went drinking that night, same place, and this time you were of no mind to talk about market forecasts. 

brett looked at you from behind the bar with such a strange burning intensity, and you refused all drinks to the consternation of your project leader—though he forgot about it as soon as the karaoke machine was brought out. 

“why did you stop playing?”

“how do you know,” you started to ask, but brett was staring at your knuckles. maybe you’d done something in your sleep last night, who knew what your traitorous hands had been up to. _his_ hands were well-kept, pale and manicured, and you could only think about his tchaikovsky from last night; then you secretly wondered if the yearning in every note was something you imagined wholly to yourself. the table was butchering hikaru genji’s _starlight_ in supreme fashion and you leaned into him with a wistful smile. “sometimes things don’t work out.”

it was cold outside, in december. you stumbled into the well-lit narrow street outside, christmas lights and lanterns placed in agreeable juxtaposition. you stood there stamping your feet and waving your colleagues off until brett came out with the keys and threw a scarf at your face: “what are you, an idiot?”

“didn’t think it would be this cold.” you grinned at him and immediately watched his expression soften, even if just a little.

you surmised he must be lonely, or somesuch, living alone in a foreign country. you didn’t think about the fact that you were only going to be there for two more days; certainly the bar had enough customers to keep him busy, and friends in school away from that. you were a two-time customer, almost-stranger, and _you_ had always been the one to keep away from people.

still, you were a moth to flame. brett did not let you touch his violin, but he did listen to you sing, offkey and mad, and he had such a nice conversational voice, even if you were the one doing most of the talking, somehow.

(you didn’t think about anything at all when you were in his bed, letting his nice firm hands roam your body and seek shelter inside you, again and again and again. _why are you letting me do this?_ brett whispered into your ear, as proud as he was curious, and you thought about your own fingers and what they’ve forgotten.

_i want to remember,_ you told him, but you didn’t, that night.)

on the third day everything was done. you didn’t know how you managed to finish the conference when you did all of your reports on the subway, and neither did the canal beneath your feet. you leaned forward to ascertain if it were a fish in the water or just some shiny refuse, but it disappeared almost as soon as you looked closer.

you were free for the rest of that thursday and you knew he wasn’t working either; he had said as much the day before. umeda was not far from where you stayed, past the pedestrian crossings, the oversized shopping windows, other places you might have gone into on another trip in another life. that was where your feet brought you, to the arts theater. his face was there, in places you could see and others you didn’t; and his name too, printed in kanji, and it was then you realize you’ve read about him before, long ago.

there was a performance tonight and he never told you that ( _and why should he have?_ ), but—

the lady at the ticket window was the nicest person and you were so thankful for the kindness of strangers.

it was not a good seat but that didn’t matter, you were able to see him anyway: brett looked tiny up there, beneath a thousand lights, in front of the orchestra. he’d always cleaned up nice in the short amount of time you’ve known him, and now he was on the stage and you forgot to breathe. there was nothing around you and only he and his violin remained, poised and professional, each note sinking into your consciousness, cascading towards home. 

the violin sang sweetly, searching for you. you don’t remember what day it was anymore when you left those halls for the last time, or when you stopped regularly reaching for the case beneath your desk back home. _it was a long time ago, and far away_ , and he was singing to you wordlessly, without even looking at you.

the storm went a little something like this:

—you thought you might be drunk again in the dark of the night, and he was playing _you_ , fingers weaving through hair, pressing into flesh. tenderly, lovingly, plucking your skin apart in ways you understood all too well and ways you could not fathom anymore. the wind howled and you heard its resonance against your chest, diving through the hollows of your lungs; whatever would be left of you after the rain was a small price to pay for a world-class performance.

(he was there to coax and to wrench and to command, and you were all too yielding, as always.)

look: there was a symphony in your ribs when he maneuvered into you, hands or no hands. you gasped into his chest, felt the rainwater in rivulets drain down your body towards earth. you let yourself be devoured willingly in the concert hall, the vast red-velveted nothing where you once thought you wanted to stand, _and there it was—thunder._

here, and only here, you remember.

his fingers brushed across your collarbones, insistently, and he lifted your hands to his lips as if he knew all along: _and_ _what should i do with these, eddy?_

later, you saw brett standing outside the glass doors, his back towards you, looking out at the city streets: a multitude of lights, unwavering. you thought about calling out to him, wanting to ask if he knew you were coming, not wanting to know the answer. and then you wanted to run away, but of course he turned around and caught you.

“it was a wonderful performance,” you said, and then, “i’m going back to brisbane tomorrow.”

he said nothing because you did not let the words come out; you kissed him. _lightly_ , like the rain that was starting to fall again, and the people around you all brought out their umbrellas like clockwork. you felt his hand on your shoulder, moving to your forearm, then to your own hand, interlocking briefly. a moment’s touch, a passing fancy, a familiarity you could no longer recall.

“thanks,” he murmured, once you pulled away. he was looking at you and through you all at once, amused. “that’s nice to hear.”

you were standing in the shadow of the arch and the city was big and unmoved by whatever tragedies happen within its confines; and you were fine with that storm, tonight.


End file.
